


Open The Door

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Short One Shot, Sibling Incest, holmescest, mentions of other canon characters - Freeform, only slightly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:17:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21561019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock is back from the dead, rejected by John, and he gets a visit from his brother.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 30
Kudos: 94





	Open The Door

**Author's Note:**

> I only changed some details about Sherlock's last mission. Made it a bit more dramatic. But this is just background, this short drabble is merely about the awkward situation between the brothers. Sometimes I feel the urge to write them as much in character as possible.

## 1

Sherlock gingerly touches his upper lip. A cut. Has stopped bleeding. All teeth are intact. His nose – not broken, just bloody. John has made clear what he thinks about his lies and how little he cares about his return now that he seems to have found the woman he wants to spend his life with.

 _It doesn’t matter,_ he tells himself.

He's back in London.

They are all safe. John. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. Moriarty's network is destroyed.

The last part of his mission almost destroyed _him_.

But someone got him out.

The same someone he has missed and thought about the most for the past two years.

“ _Talk to John,”_ he told Sherlock a couple of hours ago. _“I will come over later.”_ His tone should have told Sherlock that receiving a warm welcome is not what his brother expected him to receive from John. He was right. Isn’t he always? He is the smart one.

Sherlock knows he is supposed to take care of an important case for his brother – a terror attack is coming. But is this all Mycroft wants to talk to him about?

He hopes it is not. He fears it is not.

Unknown territory. Scary. Disturbing. Alluring.

_ Two and half years ago:  _

_Plans. Scheming. Mycroft is so good at this. Sherlock is not bad either. Together they are a force. He never even considered this. Mycroft always was the shadow that overpowered his life, ever since he grew out of his chubby teenage self to become the impeccable student, the sought-after government genius. Told him to do better. Told him to get his shit together – not in such crude words of course. That's not Mycroft's style. But the message was clear, or so it seemed: ‘You are a loser, try to be like me.’ And Sherlock did the opposite, just for the sake of opposition. His usual reaction to pressure. Rebellion. Contempt. Indulging in chemical distraction for years. Not once did he understand where Mycroft's anger and disappointment came from. He cares. He who told Sherlock that caring is not an advantage cares more about him than anybody else._

_When they work together, he does realise this. Better late than never, isn’t it? Is it?_

_It is awkward at first. Two brothers, two strangers, spending hours on end together. Little by little, Sherlock allows himself to consider that his older brother might be not that bad after all. And it doesn’t stop there. If it had, things would be so much easier now. An accidental touch. A smile from someone who usually never smiles genuinely. Blue eyes lingering on him for a tad too long and in a slightly disconcerting way. Until Sherlock has to admit it is not that disconcerting anymore. The next touches are not that accidental. Sherlock brushes his hand against Mycroft's when they sit together, brooding over their plans. And Mycroft looks at him. Just looks. And focuses on the work again. But then, the day before Sherlock's showdown with Moriarty, his hand gets casually placed on Sherlock's small back when they walk along the corridor. It feels odd. It feels exciting._

_Nothing happens. They say goodbye, and there is an undertone. No more. At this point, Sherlock knows what this is about. He is inexperienced in matters of the heart and knows nothing about intimacy. But_ _he feels_ _it's what has developed between them. He pushes it into the back of his mind. It is not the right time to even think about it. He has to complete his mission first. And isn’t it madness to even consider thinking about it? Not because it would be breaking a taboo if they ever followed this path. Not because it is forbidden by law. But because they are who they are._

_Two years. Two bloody lonely, life-threatening years._

_They stay in contact, of course. Mycroft needs to know his mission is going accordingly to their plans. He wants to know Sherlock is safe. Sherlock lets him know frequently that he is still alive and kicking, often enough literally._

_Their communication is usually limited to brief texting._

_Moldova done. SH_

_Good. MH_

_Off to Budapest. SH_

_Let me know if you need something. MH_

_All good. SH_

_Sometimes Sherlock thinks to read more than brotherly and work-related concern in his brother’s texts. Sometimes he thinks he has made this up in his confused mind – Mycroft desiring him? Is this even possible? And even if it was there at some point – he has been gone for so long; certainly Mycroft has got over it anyway. He knows it would be for the better. But the thought pains him._

_They never write a word about this_ thing _between them._

_And when he thinks he is finally done, just one more piece of the network to take care of, he gets taken from the street. A man named Sebastian Moran has him brought to a dark, nasty place. Sherlock is sure he will not leave it alive. There is pain. Moran grieves and he blames Sherlock for Jim Moriarty's death. He chased Sherlock throughout Europe, and neither Mycroft nor Sherlock got it. A slipping that almost costs his life._

_But when he thinks his life is about to end, all hell breaks loose. Moran dies almost in his arms, just like Jim. Sherlock's back is in pieces. Moran whipped him for the best part of an hour. How did Mycroft find him? His brother, his relief about the outcome of his operation on the surface, answers grimly that he had a bad feeling. He put maximum surveillance on Sherlock without telling him._

_Sherlock gets flown back to England. For a few days he gets treated in a hospital in the countryside, where nobody knows who he is. At least they pretend they don't know. His face is all over the newspapers again. He gets cleared of all the wrong accusations that were needed to make Moriarty believe he had won the game._

_Mycroft doesn't visit him. He is needed in London. Sherlock is glad. He looked pathetic enough when his brother saved his arse._

And today Sherlock has returned. He saw Molly and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. And John… In Whitehall, he spoke briefly with his brother, who looked gaunt and exhausted. The terror threat. Or his worry about Sherlock? Both, he assumes. He will take care of Mycroft's case. Tomorrow.

Coming down from adrenaline and disappointment about John’s reaction, he slowly walks home. A home for himself now. John is gone. He has not expected this. Well, he is aware that in many ways, he is rather naïve.

John might forgive him. Mary said she would try to placate him.

Right now, it doesn't matter.

Tonight matters. It will either close this forbidden, terrifying door forever – or push it wide open.

*****

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

Mycroft nods and puts the bag onto the living room table. “I assumed you would say that. But you must eat. You lost too much weight.” He unpacks the sandwiches he has brought. “Do you have plates?”

“Somewhere.” Sherlock gives in and proceeds to get up, but Mycroft makes a gesture for him to stay seated.

“I will find them.”

“I’m not an invalid, Mycroft. My back is fine.” It isn’t, not really. But the wounds are all stitched up and healing. They will leave angry scars. Being pushed onto his back by John didn’t feel that great. But the wounds have not reopened.

Mycroft nods. “Your lip. A souvenir by Doctor Watson, I suppose.” He sounds calm but there is something in his eyes that tells Sherlock that his former best friend has gone even more down on Mycroft's personal popularity scale. Whoever is up there? The Queen, he reckons. Certainly not their stupid PM. He, perhaps. Certainly. For a long time he was stupid enough to think Mycroft doesn’t like him but only sees him as a bother to take care of. Now he knows this was wrong. But he is still not sure in which ways Mycroft actually likes him. Let alone if he will act on these feelings, ever, if they even exist outside of Sherlock's imagination. And he is not even sure he wants him to. Seems he can’t be sure about anything anymore...

“You were right. He was not that happy to see me.” It stings. How can it not?

“He doesn’t understand why you did it. I guess he didn’t want to hear your explanations?”

Sherlock shrugs. The movement pulls at his stitches and he suppresses a grimace. “Not sure that would have changed anything. He resents me for not trusting him with this knowledge.”

Mycroft nods. “You think he will calm down and listen to you?”

“Perhaps. His girlfriend told me she would work at it.”

Mycroft nods again and finally turns to go to the kitchen. Sherlock wraps their dinner out of the paper. The sandwiches look good. Salmon. Bacon. He realises he is, in fact, hungry.

“I need to tell you about this threat.” Mycroft sounds almost apologetic when he sits down.

Sherlock knows he has plenty of people who could take care of this. Does he really need his assistance? Or is it to keep him occupied so he doesn’t fall back into bad habits now that John is gone, at least for now? Or does he even do it to not have to talk about… whatever it really is that has developed between them? Mycroft's face is unreadable. Sherlock can’t say what he thinks. “Just shoot,” he says. He does need this case. What else he needs he is not sure.

Mycroft looks at him for a few seconds. “Thank you. But let’s eat something first.”

Sherlock nods and they each grab a sandwich and start to eat in silence.

There is an undeniable tension between them. And it is both scary and promising. Or perhaps Sherlock is just losing his mind.

## 2

Mycroft nods. “This sounds good, Sherlock. Thank you.”

“I will have a look at my markers tomorrow morning.” The markers – people who have connections to terrorist groups. Sherlock will find out if they behave as if they expect an attack.

“Sherlock...” Mycroft begins and stops.

Sherlock's heart starts to beat faster. Is this the moment? They are sitting on the couch, next to each other but not close enough to touch. But he can smell his brother’s deodorant. He is hyper aware of his physical presence. What Mycroft says next feels like ice water being poured over his head.

“If you need someone to… talk to about what happened to you… I can arrange that.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “What – a psychologist?”

“They can be helpful. I have seen agents coming back who did not go through what you just experienced and they...”

“I don’t need psychological help! I don’t have nightmares. No panic attacks.” Sherlock feels both angry and disappointed. If this is why Mycroft is here – asking for help for the kingdom and offering some because he thinks what Moran did to him has scarred him for life in more than the physical way – he can as well leave now.

Mycroft bites his lip. “It was not my intention to upset you. And these symptoms might still come. Or others. But of course… if they do… you can come to me.” He sounds insecure now and Sherlock calms down and feels his pulse speed up simultaneously.

Mycroft is avoiding his look. His powerful, cold brother has just set a foot on dangerous territory.

He was not wrong. But he has no idea what to say now.

Mycroft gets up. “I should leave you alone. You need some rest.”

“I had plenty of it in the hospital. I'm fine.” He doesn’t ask Mycroft to stay. Not with words.

But his brother understands and sits down again.

For a long moment, neither of them says a word. Then Sherlock says one. Just one. “Mycroft.”

His brother doesn’t reply but he reaches out with his left hand, offering his palm. Sherlock doesn’t know what to do for a moment but then he very slowly puts his own hand on Mycroft's, and he actually gaps when Mycroft intertwines their fingers.

His heart is hammering now, and for a moment he wonders if he felt this agitated on any of the dangerous missions he took the past two years. Probably not. He can do danger. He can do facing the worst criminals in Europe. He can do violence.

But can he face sentiment? Can Mycroft? Real sentiment. Deep sentiment. Not the friendship he feels for John, or Molly. This counts. It reaches into the very core of his heart. And when Mycroft turns his head, he can see the same feeling in those suddenly not that cold blue eyes. His hand is warm and his grip is strong. A comforting gesture. And more intimate than they have ever been since growing up. Skin on skin.

A full minute passes. Sherlock has started moving his fingers, just a bit. Rubbing them against Mycroft's elegant, soft digits. His brother returns the pressure, equally gently. Tenderly.

Holding hands. With his brother.

He desperately wants to say something. But what? _‘For an Iceman, your fingers are amazingly warm’_? _‘_ _I like holding hands with you’_?

He feels stupid and inadequate and then his head seems to move by itself. Just an inch but Mycroft responds at once, and then their lips press against each other. A brief, dry peck. Weird. Nice. They kiss again. With more pressure this time, their mouths still closed. Sherlock closes his eyes when Mycroft reaches up with his free hand to put it onto his cheek ever so lightly.

“Sorry,” Mycroft says then, and Sherlock freezes. But Mycroft looks just concerned. “Your lip.”

Sherlock reaches up. He has almost forgotten about the cut. “It’s nothing.” It does feel wet again and Mycroft pulls out a clean, ironed handkerchief and softly wipes it over his mouth.

When he has stored it again, they look at each other and Sherlock can see a question in Mycroft's eyes. He nods. “Yes. I want this.” He is amazed he got this blunt albeit dry statement out.

Mycroft's voice is very quiet when he answers. “I’m glad.” He shakes his head. “I feel so...”

“...clumsy? Out of your depth?” Sherlock smirks. “Ask me. I thought… I was imagining it.”

Mycroft nods. “Both. And it didn’t… It didn’t feel right to text about it. Not just for safety reasons.”

Sherlock can’t even imagine texting sweet nothings with his brother. Will they get there? Where is this going anyway? He has to solve this case. He has to repair his friendship with John. Get back into his routines. His back has to heal.

“We have time, brother mine.” Mycroft smiles at him and Sherlock presses his hand harder.

“Yes. Just… don’t change your mind.”

He closes his eyes when Mycroft kisses the spot between them. “I won’t,” the older man whispers, and Sherlock smiles. There is so much to do and to take care of, but right here, right now, he feels as if they are in a bubble, separated from this world of demands and challenges. They will have to steal time for themselves. Explore this adventure in the dark. Nobody may know. It will be difficult in so many ways. But it feels right.

The door is wide open.


End file.
